“The strength of the talents and gifts that you know about.”
“Exactly. Because we don’t find all the Abandoned Ones. Some of them escape detection altogether and die. Some of them are taken by the Others to be raised in evil. And some are raised in orphanages or by foster parents, and we never know who they are.”
“It’s a lousy world.”
“It’s your job to make it better.”
“I know that!” Aaron’s frustration with their lack of action—everyone’s frustration at their lack of action—chewed at his composure. Knowing that their fate currently rested in the hands of a girl with no belief in the Chosen Ones or their mission made him tense and snappish. And the pressure Irving so skillfully applied made Aaron say, “I didn’t ask to make the world better, but I’m in now, Irving. I’m sticking with my compatriots—except, gee, we’ve already been betrayed by one Chosen and we’re down to six. We need someone else. What are we going to do about that, Irving?”
“I don’t know.” Irving sagged against the wall. “The number of gifted has been steadily dwindling in past years. That’s why we pulled in Aleksandr, although he hasn’t a gift that we know of and he’s young. Very young. We hope his gift will appear. Worse, the records were destroyed in the explosion, so I haven’t a clue of the Abandoned Ones available to us.”
This time, the old guy was so obviously distressed, Aaron believed him. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”
Irving’s eyes narrowed as he thought. “Except . . . well, no.”
“You have someone?”
“A previous Chosen, but he . . . he’s not stable.”
“What does ‘not stable’ mean?”
“He can’t control his gift. Last time he used it, he created disaster.”
“That doesn’t sound too good.” Because the only disaster Aaron had experienced so far had been the destruction of the Gypsy Travel Agency, and that was a biggie. “You keep thinking. In the meantime, I’m off to do my job.”
“Don’t get caught,” Irving warned.
Fury at being trapped in these circumstances grabbed at Aaron, and he snarled, “I was only caught once, and I suspect I had help from the Gypsy Travel Agency.”
“Yes,” Irving agreed, “and if we can hook you, so can the Others. So be careful. Be very, very careful.”
Chapter 11
It was after six p.m. when Aaron walked into the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library and up to Jessica’s desk. The main room was quiet; two elderly women sat together, a heavy art tome spread out before them on the table. A student with papers placed haphazardly around him snored peacefully on the carpet. Unfortunately for Aaron, Jessica’s shift was over and she’d been replaced by some guy, and not even a gay guy, which might have worked to Aaron’s advantage. The boy was just some kid working his way through college.
Aaron put on his best stuffy official act and said, “I’m Aaron Eagle. I was here earlier to meet with Dr.
Hall. I took her to examine some manuscripts owned by my employer, and she asked me to return for her notebook.”
The kid—his nameplate said he was Dylan—studied Aaron. “I heard she had a date with some really hot stud. I take it it’s not you.”
Damn. Jessica had talked to him before she left. “Apparently the date fell through. Disappointing for her.” Aaron shrugged the tiniest bit. “But not surprising, you know?”
Dylan’s eyes grew cold. “I like Rosamund, and I don’t think she’s nearly the dog everyone else thinks she is.”
Great. Aaron had just set the kid’s back up.
“Anyway,” Dylan said, “I can’t let anyone into Rosamund’s area without an appointment.”
“She needs that notebook.” Aaron pulled out his cell phone. “What if I call her and she can tell you what she needs and you go down and get it?”
“No one goes in Rosamund’s area unless she’s there. Those are the rules.” The kid was not about to back down.
Part of Aaron’s job was recognizing when to admit defeat. He never made a scene; a scene attracted attention, and he didn’t really want anyone to remember he’d been here at all. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I was just hoping . . . oh, well.” He nodded. “Have a good evening!”
“You, too.” Dylan watched him walk away, and Aaron didn’t have to see him to know he smiled. Nothing made a college kid as happy as making an overbearing adult toe the line.
As Aaron walked, he glanced at the security cameras, located them, then picked out a dark, empty, un-surveyed corner and made his way there. Standing quietly among the stacks, he perused the books, made sure he was alone . . . then dissolved into a dark mist that disappeared into the shadows.
Next, he did what he did best.
He made his way unseen to the antiquities department. He located Rosamund’s worn leather notebook, stuffed with papers. He surrounded it with himself, making it as much a part of the shadows as he himself was. Then the dark mist that was Aaron wafted like smoke through the cracks in the doors, down the corridors, and when he knew himself to be safe, out of the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library.
“Rosamund.” Aaron’s warm, deep voice spoke close to her ear. “I have your notebook for you.”
She turned her head. Her neck popped. Her eyes felt square, like they’d shaped themselves into pages. Aaron’s face swam before her tired gaze, and she said the first thing that came to her head. “Do you realize it is a crime that Irving hasn’t allowed these manuscripts to be scanned and uploaded to the public domain?”
He straightened. “You’re welcome.”IT
“Oh.” She looked down at the notebook he had handed her. “Thank you. They didn’t give you trouble about going down to the antiquities when I wasn’t there?”
“Since I’d been there earlier . . .”
“Good.” She’d been sitting for too long. She needed to get up, stretch, go to the bathroom. “This will be very helpful. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” She pushed away from the table and scrambled to her feet.
“When you come back, I’ll have a glass of warm milk ready for you.” Martha stood up out of Irving’s big leather easy chair. “That will help relax you so you can sleep.”
“That would be lovely, but I really need to—” Horrified remembrance flashed through Rosamund. She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, no. I forgot my date with Lance Mathews!”
“Oh, dear,” Martha said.
“What time is it?” Rosamund looked around wildly. A clock. She needed a clock. Irving had jars of teeth in here, but he didn’t have a clock?
Aaron glanced at his watch. “Ten twenty.”
“I need to call him, to explain. . . .” She felt sick.
“If he works from eight to five, it’s a little late. You might wake him up.” Martha’s voice was low and gravelly, as if she smoked when she could sneak away. Cigarettes or maybe, as rough as she looked, cigars.
“But I . . . He was supposed to pick me up and take me to dinner!” Rosamund flushed hot and then cold as she imagined Lance Mathews standing on her doorstep, dressed in a suit like Aaron’s—no, in casual clothes like the ones he had worn earlier—and thinking she had stood him up.
Charisma wandered through the door, her black and purple hair in Pippi Longstocking braids. She wore pajamas, huge fluffy slippers, and a tattered robe, and was unwrapping an ice-cream sandwich and holding another one. “Hey, Rosamund, I thought about saying something to you about that date, but you were so absorbed I thought you must have cancelled.”
“I never have dates that aren’t blind dates, and then the guys never call back. The one time I actually have a guy look at me and like me and ask me out—and he’s gorgeous—and I forgot. How big a loser am I? I want to jump off a cliff.”
“I don’t care how gorgeous he is. He isn’t worth that,” Aaron said.
“It’s okay, Rosamund. A real man . . .” Charisma began. Then she bit into the ice-cream sandwich, and her face lit up. “Good,” she said. “B
etter than good.”
With some vaguely deep meaning in his voice, Aaron asked, “What were you saying before you started eating, Charisma?”
“Oh! Right.” Charisma coughed. “A real man totally gets when a woman gets involved in her work. I’m sure Lance Mathews will get how important your work is to you, too.”
“Really?” Rosamund looked from Charisma to Martha to Aaron.
They all nodded.
“Sure.” Charisma handed Rosamund the second ice-cream sandwich. “Here, eat this. It will make you feel better.”
Rosamund peeled back the paper.
“Aren’t I right about guys understanding how important a woman’s work is, Aaron?” Charisma asked.
“Heavens, yes. If Lance Mathews is half the man I think he is, he will understand completely.” Aaron turned to Martha. “Has anyone told Rosamund that Irving called the library?”
Rosamund paused, the ice-cream sandwich halfway to her mouth. “The library? You mean the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library? Why? What did he call for?”
“He convinced the board to give you a leave of absence to work for him,” Martha said.
“Irving’s a wily old thing,” Charisma said. “He insinuated that he wanted you to assess his collection because he was deciding who was going to get it. The head of the board, some snooty guy in a suit—”
“Mr. Perez.” Rosamund bit into the ice-cream sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “This is tremendous.”
“A gourmet ice-cream sandwich, orange ice cream between two oatmeal cookies.” Charisma polished hers off.
Rosamund took another bite, and closed her eyes as she chewed. “Bliss.”
When she opened them, Aaron was watching her so intently she figured she must have a crumb on her face, and dabbed at her mouth.
“Apparently Mr. Perez bowed and scraped and let Irving have his way. You’re on loan to Irving as long as he wants you.” Charisma flung herself back into a chair, and declared, “That sandwich was sick. Now I can die happy.”
Rosamund didn’t know if she could die happy, but she had to admit, the infusion of flavors and sugars did wonders to decrease her anxiety about Lance Mathews. “So you really think he won’t be mad that I forgot him?”
Charisma made an amused face. “No. Geez, only a guy with an immense, silly ego would notice.”
“So true.” Aaron captured Rosamund’s hand, brought it to his mouth, and took a bite of her ice-cream sandwich.
“Hey!” she said.
“You’re right—it is good.” Still holding her hand, he looked into her eyes.
Her breath caught in her throat. That sculpted, strong, and bronzed face . . . that curious, intent expression . . .
What was wrong with her? She was interested in Lance Mathews, not Aaron Eagle, but when Aaron looked at her like that, he made her breath sing in her chest.
He let go of her hand.
She looked away.
No one seemed to notice the brief moment of chest-singing . . . except her.
“Irving’s bedroom is right through that door. But let me lock it on this side.” Martha went over and turned the key.
“Irving had a cot brought in here for you.” Charisma waved at the twin-sized folding bed. “And Isabelle and I put together clothes we thought would fit you. Irving wants you to be comfortable while you look for the prophecy.”
When Rosamund glanced back at Aaron, he was looking at Charisma with the kind of affectionate smile she never saw him use when he looked at her.
Nope. She was right. He didn’t even like her.
“Hey, Rosamund, probably you want to sleep now,” Charisma said.
“I’ll get your warm milk,” Martha said.
“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll sleep. Now . . . I need to use the facilities.” She edged toward the corridor, far too aware of three pairs of eyes keenly watching her. “I’m tired. I know I’ll sleep well. I really will.” She made it into the bathroom, shut the door behind her, locked it and leaned against it.
She understood the situation. She really did. They desperately wanted an explanation about the explosion at the Gypsy Travel Agency, what it meant and what would happen next. They thought she could find that explanation . . . and when she was engrossed in her research, she believed she could provide it, too.
But her father had been so angry whenever she showed him her stories about fairies and dragons, witches and magicians. He had been so insistent that she forget all the things her mother had taught her about the Chosen Ones and their enemies.
How did she dare to imagine she could find a true prophecy among the multitude of farcical ones? Irving had gone to great lengths to keep her here, but she had to find a life to live that did not include research.
If she could only get it started.
Remembering the way Aaron looked at her, as if she were the village idiot . . . remembering the way Lance Mathews looked at her, as if she were the first course of a meal . . . she knew what she had to do.
Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she texted Lance Mathews. sorry missed r date. try again?
Chapter 12
Lance Mathews threw his phone across the office and hissed in annoyance. “The stupid little—”
From the desk in the shadows, a smooth, quiet voice spoke. “Mr. Mathews, you know I don’t appreciate inappropriate language.”
The sound of Osgood’s rebuke was enough to calm Lance’s fury. Or rather, his rebuke was enough to freeze Lance’s fury.
Because no one knew better than Lance just who, and what, Osgood was.
“It is bad enough that the Chosen recruits escaped the blast at the Gypsy Travel Agency.”
“That wasn’t my fault!”
“No. The people whose fault it is have been punished.”
“Are they dead?” If Osgood had taken his irritation out on them, it might go better for Lance.
“No. They were lucky that I always find it amusing to hunt inexperienced Chosen Ones. It adds a piquancy to eternity.”
“Right.” Lance’s mouth grew dry.
“But as for you—you should have secured the girl when you first made contact.” Osgood’s tranquil voice held a hint of a Southern accent.
“I thought it would be better if she anticipated our date.” When actually, Lance had been intent on putting off his painful duty as long as he could.
“Excuses, Mr. Mathews?”
“No.” Excuses were a waste of time. Osgood had a way of always knowing the truth.
On the surface, Osgood was nothing more than a New York City businessman, a very successful one, with nightclubs and bars all over the city, the East Coast, and beyond. He owned whorehouses, too, and single-handedly had gained the monopoly on prostitution, illegal gambling, and drugs. If there was money to be made on immorality, he made it.
Yet no one—not the media, not the government, not the man on the street—really knew anything about him. He owned enough police officials and politicians to make sure of that.
Osgood had no family. He had no friends. He had come up from nowhere and no one knew where he slept—or if he slept.
Lance could have sold the story on Osgood for a lot of money, but he wasn’t fool enough to try. No one rolled on Osgood and lived. In fact, it was a fast and easy way to die in agony—and that wasn’t the end of it.
The problem was what happened after death.
Because Osgood owned the monopoly on suffering in the afterlife, too.
At some point, Osgood had invited the devil into his soul.
Together, they made one hell of a team.
Now Lance stood in Osgood’s bare, dim office in his high-rise in midtown, and asked, “Who the h—Who knew that homely thing would go off with another man?”
“This kind of disappointment, especially coming from you, frustrates me. And you know how much I dislike frustration.”
Lance risked a glance toward the gray metal desk.
Osgood hadn’t moved, so maybe Lance would come ou
t all right this time.
“It won’t happen again,” he said fervently.